Page 8

CHAPTER 8

LOGAN

C ade Starr is freaking me out.

One crumble of attention and the dude is turning into a monster.

I take my sweet time fixing a wedgie and rearranging my mask while I muse about how to bring out an even nastier pitch out of him. This is game one in the series against one of the weaker teams in the league, so it’s not like we’re going for broke here, but we should definitely display dominance.

And he’s certainly doing that, to the point that it makes me want to laugh.

A new batter steps into the plate, already mumbling vile shit under his breath without even having taken the first swing. That’s what happens when you’re down eight runs and have only managed to score one.

In just the third inning.

The umpire knows exactly what I’m up to and tries to cut me off, announcing, “Play ball!”

As I crouch and get comfy, I notice the batter choking up on the bat like he’s going for a hit on one of the pitches that Starr can place in the strike zone with laser precision. Bold of this guy to try that on pitch one.

It’s like he thinks I’ll really let the runners on second and third score.

Since Starr doesn’t vibe with the PitchCom, I tuck my right hand between my thighs for old school signs. The one thing that’s annoying about him—the real one, not the ones I say are annoying just to keep him off my back—is that he tends to put a hundred percent of his trust in my calls. Rare is the occasion where he rejects one.

On the one hand it’s great because he recognizes who has the brains in this battery. But on the other hand, he’s fully dependent on me. I can’t say that his next catcher is going to be as effective in drawing out his full power as I am.

But that’s not my problem.

He throws the fastball right where I wanted, on the inside corner. I don’t even have to move my glove.

Of course, the batter connects with it on the perfect spot.

We spring to action at the exact same time. Him, to run to first. Me, jumping to my feet to yell at Rivera. “Third!”

Rivera makes an Olympic leap—a real beaut. The ball doesn’t fly with explosive power and he catches it in his bare hand. Rolling with the motion, he tosses the ball from behind him to third.

“Out!” the umpire calls behind me.

Yep, that’s one.

But the runner on third is advancing toward home. Brown, our third baseman, needs no instructions. He throws the ball at me with so much force that he goes tumbling forward.

Me? I just put a casual foot on the home plate and catch the ball in my glove. Then I fire it like a cannon to first base.

The runner makes it to home another second later. “Out!” the umpire shouts.

My throw lands in Miller’s glove with a poetic thud and lo and behold, the batter makes it to base at last.

“Three outs! Change!”

The crowd roars. Loud enough to make the air vibrate.

“Shit, shit,” the third base runner moans as he does a U turn to return to his dugout.

“Music to my ears,” I mumble, grinning behind the grill of my mask.

“What just happened?” Starr’s eyes are as wide as they can go while we jog over to our dugout. “Like seriously, a triple play? Who are you trying to impress? My momma?”

I snort. We all know he doesn’t have one.

Behind us, Rivera’s voice joins in. “Bro. Bro! What? What ?”

I rip off my mask and wipe the sweat off my forehead with my arm. “Listen, I can hear the crushes developing in your voices and you need to stop.” Because I’m leaving this season, but I don’t say that part aloud.

“But you’re single.” Rivera laughs.

“It’s okay, you’re safe from me.” Starr puts his hand on his chest. “But only because I’m already dating Hope.”

Sighing, I leave them behind because I have an at bat coming up and need to get the pads off. Sometimes these two preschoolers wrap me up in their absurdity and I end up saying things that fuel them. I should know better by now.

As I step into the dugout, I’m greeted by more paws than I’m comfortable with—from players and staff. Even Beau joins in.

“That one’s going to make the highlight reels,” he says.

Kaplan will enjoy that , I think to myself sardonically.

“Triple play, you show off!”

“Pff, off the charts.”

“Wow, I’m so glad you’re on our team, man.”

I focus on removing my chest pad, not showing a single hint about how bad that last one hits. I wish I was as cold blooded as I actually want, just so that the glee in their faces didn’t land in the pool of acid in my stomach.

But whatever, the game’s still going. I put all this in a little box in my mind and shelve it.

McDonald, one of the hitting coaches, grabs me by the shoulder. “Brown’s going to get on base before you no matter what. You have to get him in scoring position.”

I nod. Brown’s a really good hitter. He’s not powerful enough to make the coveted rankings or anything, but he’s reliable and a decent runner, and his RBI doesn’t lie.

“Their second is still shaken from the error in the bottom second,” he continues with that special blend of whisper-shouting that happens in matches where the crowd is rowdy. “Crush it right behind him and we’re set.”

“Got it.”

He hands me the helmet, someone else gives me the gloves. I stuff the sliding mitt in my back pocket and grab a bat on the way out. Brown’s just reaching the home plate and starting his jinxes—two swings, a sweep of the dirt with his foot, one more swing.

I stand on-deck, tugging my gloves in place and balancing the bat on my shoulder. Brown makes eye contact with me and touches the tip of his nose. I nod.

Yeah, we’re not filling up bases. We’re going for it.

Instructions given, he makes short work of it and connects on the second pitch. It’s a solid hit, landing between the pitcher and second base in a way that gets the whole formation scrambling. And voila, there’s Brown in first.

I’m not an old school type of ball player who believes in rituals. My biggest asset is my brain and that’s how I approach every single play, and every single inning. My goal is to screw over with the heads of the opposing team whether I’m catching, batting, or running.

A glance at Beau and he gives me the go ahead to do whatever the hell I want. I’ll miss that. It always takes a while to get to this level of trust with a new team. But they’d be fools to test me for too long, anyway.

I step onto the batter’s box and the catcher steps inward in an almost drastic way. Are they trying to bean me and walk me off?

Bo-o-ring.

In turn, I stand back as far from the home plate as I can and set out to play my own game.

The pitcher shakes his head twice, probably trying to burn as much of the clock as he can. Finally he throws and I don’t move a muscle. The ball whiffs me close enough to fan my shirt.

“Ball!”

Our base coach tells Brown not to run at all, fully trusting that I’ll hit the next one—not knowing that I have a different plan.

I start humming my walkup song, even though it’s not playing on the stadium speakers anymore. Behind me, the catcher mumbles something I can’t discern but is surely not PG rated. Dude’s a rookie and clearly why this is enough to rattle him.

He crouches real close again, fifty-fifty chance that he’ll ask for the same pitch. Even if he does, his pitcher isn’t a Cade Starr who can place the ball at any point at will. So either the pitcher will bean me, or he’ll end up pitching farther.

He winds up with just a smidge less enthusiasm than before. The ball makes a pink dot and I’d blow a raspberry if I wasn’t already in motion. I tilt back just a bit, giving myself a wider range to swing. The impact comes right where I wanted it, and I’m stronger than the blow. I keep swinging until the ball takes off into the distance.

It’s gonna be a foul, so I don’t go very far.

“Foul!” the umpire calls out and I jog back to the batter’s box with one more pitch for the pitcher’s count.

And that’s what my plan is. I’m going to tire this guy out until the last second.

The next pitch results in the exact same picture. Funny enough, the ball lands near the same spot as before—well, it’s not funny. That’s where I aimed.

Then I get two balls, and they start making the pitcher grind his teeth because he’s finally caught onto my game. Some of the fans are booing, probably thinking this is boring or cowardly. I don’t care about that. I’m the kind of asshole who will happily bunt if it means turning the other team into scrambled eggs.

Fortunately for him, it’s time to finish this.

The catcher’s no longer aiming for a hit by pitch, and now knows I’m annoying enough that I’ll get walked if they keep going. The batter waits a long time to accept the sign and throws.

Oh, it’s a work of art. A two seamer right where I like it.

Come to daddy , I think while I swing.

The clang against my bat is so satisfying, I wish I could replay the recording at night to lull me to sleep. I finish the swing and watch the ball rise into the air in a perfect rendition of the St. Louis arch.

This makes the crowd’s tune change. As thousands of voices rise, I trot to first base and toss the bat to the side. The centerfield runs toward the ball, but the wall gets in the way while the ball keeps going—until it hits the display.

I smile. I couldn’t possibly have planned this better.

*

We end up winning twelve to two. Our best game so far in my opinion, better than the perfect game last week.

This one… this is the one that will send the bat signal to the whole league that the Orlando Wild isn’t picking its nose and scratching its ass this season.

The locker room is a whole jungle right after the game, and I’m trying to tune them out by toweling my face before the post game interview. One of the broadcast producers gave me a heads up during the last inning that my face’s services are required.

A yawn escapes as I trawl out of the clubhouse. Eh, I forgot to leave the towel behind so I’ll just hang it around my neck.

I find the camera man and Steve Boateng, our broadcast guy, already set up against the screen that prominently features our team logo of a purple gator with yellow accents. I’ve done this enough times that I know where to stand.

Boateng gets going right away. “We have Logan Kim joining us tonight after the impressive twelve-two win. How do you feel right now, Logan?”

“Hungry,” I kid but not. Since I’ve been told to be a bit less cutting in these things, I add, “It was a really good game, though. I hope the fans had a good time.” Here I offer a little smile at the camera, a second before a fat drop of sweat falls from my nose.

“Congratulations on the win. And on another topic,” he continues, “What do you think about the video that’s running wild on the internet?”

“I—What video?”

“The wild catch you made that saved our social media manager.”

The what, what? I ask myself. There’s a video?

First time I hear about it, so I have no freaking clue what people are saying online. Surely it can’t be bad if she came out unscathed.

Tentatively I say, “I have no doubt that it was the most important catch of my career.”

Boateng shifts the microphone toward him and says, “According to some, it has made you the biggest catch in the league.” He gives out a rehearsed laugh, like that line was. “Thank you for your time, Logan. We’ll let you go get some rest.”

“Yeah, thank you.” With one final nod, I turn back where I came from.

Most of the guys are already hitting the showers, but first I make a bee line to find my cellphone in my locker. It only takes a few taps to find the top video when I search for my name.

“What the—” Even I know these many million views are not normal.

I hit play on the video and it’s just me squirting a water bottle into my mouth while Rosalina Mena asks me something behind the screen. And then the video slows down, and some saxophone shit starts playing in the background as I move.

Okay, I have to admit that it was a freaky catch. I was moved on instinct alone. Of course I had a general idea where the batters stood on the field for practice, but there’s an infinite ball trajectory possibilities. Mena’s guardian angel must’ve been the one positioning my hand to the precise spot needed to catch the ball and prevent a tragedy.

But then the video changes to my face as I check in on her.

My absolutely terrified face.

I turn my phone away and sit there for a moment, staring at nothing.

Gathering a deep breath, I look at the video again. It has started all over, so I scroll back to that spot.

The hell am I doing biting my lip like that? Yeah, it was scary, but anyone would think that was my wife about to get murdered or something.

No wonder they put this sexy-times music on top. And a brief glance at the comments confirms that yes, this has painted a target on my back for the women of the internet. That’s one, two… sixteen wedding proposals within three scrolls.

There goes my stinking peace and quiet. And if this shit stays up for longer, I may end up with stalkers of the caliber like Starr got during Spring Training.

Standing up, I mumble, “That ball didn’t kill you, Mena, but I will.” I toss the towel on my seat and stomp out of the clubhouse, headed for the back office.